The Goddess of Death
by SleeplessEngine
Summary: After breaking his oath to Ares, Kratos embarks on a long journey of atonement, hoping his many quests from the Gods would end his troubled dreams. He meets a Priestess in unusual circumstance and prays that she is the key for his redemption.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I thought of doing a story set in the new God Of War world. But I really wanted to deviate a little bit and get to know Kratos while he was in the Greek World (but I definitely plan on doing a story with Kratos in the Norse world). I won't be going through the whole storyline (that's waaaay to long). I want to emphasize a single moment in his life, some point in time during his service to the Gods. I won't talk too much about what the story is about, but I plan to update either once or twice a week (or more depending how much I can get done in day). I am prone to not finishing stories, but this one I actually do want to complete. By all means, hit me up about updates.

Disclaimer: Obviously Kratos is not my character, but the other characters in the story are from greek mythology and I add in my own character.

*A finale note: Some of the events that I've referenced from actual or mythological events may be a bit askew in terms of timeline.

* * *

 _Part One: The Priestess_

The ruins of Rhodes was depleted of its former grandeur. The only reminder that civilisation could have existed here, was the Colossus of Helios standing tall but worn in the city's center. Nature had overtaken the ruins, bathing the entirety in green and peculiar indigo flowers. At some point in time, the Chimera had taken up residence here and Kratos had the unfortunate pleasure of running into it. He bested the beat in terms of sheer power, but he'd been too cocky. He should've seen the beast's reptilian tail closing in on him. But there was no point dwelling in a mistake. Blood wept from a large gash, just below his ribcage, where he'd been pierced by fangs thicker than his wound was hot and sizzling. The poison was increasingly making his vision blurry, as his eyes did their best to survey his surroundings hoping to find a brief haven for when he went unconscious. The Chimera's venom was working quick, as only minutes ago he'd been able to at least walk in a straight line. Now it took every bit of strength within him to stumble on. He was still in a dangerous place, even with the main threat dead. The sky had become a greying blue as the sun continued its descent. He didn't like the thought of being out cold in the dark. Nothing good ever happened in the dark. He managed to get himself to the outskirts of the ruins, just as his legs faltered and buckled. They couldn't withstand his weight anymore, and as he fell he shot out his arms and caught himself, yet his limbs were met with a burst of sharp pain, like needles gouging through skin and bone. He clenched his teeth, and begun to crawl. He still seeked shelter, but the poison had reached every crevice of his body. Eventually he was unable to move at all. He felt his eyelids droop. He had no choice but to give in to the poison's effects. And what came after was the worse hell not even the God of the dead could conjure.

The nightmare tore into his flesh, sinking its canines deep, and threatening to rip him to shreds. The dream took him into the past, into a phantasmic purgatory where he was forced to relive his most sinful acts. It took him back to that day, when he had been so consumed in power and bloodlust, and committed unforgivable violence. Kratos had commanded his own men to slaughter a whole village, an innocent bystander in his warpath. None were spared from his wrath, not women nor children. It was as if his body had a purpose of its own as it marched into the Temple of Athena, slaughtering priests and the remaining villagers who had thought their Gods would spare them. When he had finally calmed down and regained his senses, before him was hall of mutilated corpses, including the corpses of those he loved more than anyone on earth. He dropped to his knees and grasped his daughter's body, shaking her repeatedly as if she were merely asleep- though there was a gaping hole in her chest. Eventually his soldiers had forced him away. Someone had set the Temple of Athena on fire. He was forced away from his family, and dragged outside. His soldier let him be, as he kneeled on the ground staring at his hands stained with his family's blood, not quite believing what he'd done. He was so withdrawn into himself, he didn't see the village Oracle standing before him. Cursing him.

"You shall wear the ashes of your beloveds for the rest of your days," the old woman had said, and his skin burned as the ashes of his family molded onto him, turning him paler than a ghost.

"All shall know of the 'Great Spartan Warrior' who butchered his own wife and child." he tried to talk back, to explain himself. He was fooled, he couldn't be capable of such a dishonorable and shameful deed. But all that left his moving lips was silence. The dream shifted, making him nauseous as it morphed until reaching its desired shape. In every direction was pure darkness, save for a painfully bright light that shined from directly above him, illuminating the blood on his hands as the sword he gripped plunged deeper into a body. He looked up to the smiling face of Orkos, the only God who had ever truly helped him. Blood seeped from in between his lips, rushing down his bearded chin.

"It was the only way." Orkos said in a gentle voice, and the iron slipped out of his body as he fell to the ground. Kratos reached for him, but dark claws came out of the darkness, grasping the God's body pulling it into the void.

"Your fault!" the shouts of the Furies reverberated in the black realm. Kratos covered his ears, as the sound became so unbearable he thought his head would explode. And in an instant the dream changed again, this time putting him inside a little abandoned hut in a forest. He was looking at himself, sitting on the hay littered floor- his blade to his throat. He remembered that night; he had woken from an especially gruesome dream. He didn't want to live that way anymore, life simply wasn't worth the suffering. Yet he couldn't bring himself to commit. He watched himself throw the knife at the wall and his duplicate cried and shouted in a despairing rage until his voice was hoarse. And then the hut caught on fire. He couldn't move, his feet felt glued to the floor. Gradually the fire turned into an inferno, engulfing him completely. His blood boiled, he felt his skin and muscles being melted from his bones. He screamed in terror, as if somehow the action could relieve the pain. He gave up whatever willpower was left within him. All he longed for was to finally be embraced into Death's arms.

And the fire ceased to exist. The burning was replaced with an overwhelming cool feeling, like an ice cold stream showering his body. He opened his eyes. The pain lingered, but it wasn't as intense. His vision was stilly fuzzy, but he could make out a form, leaning over him, placing a cool hand on his forehead. The figure had a pleasant smell, like a field of lavender, and immediately his mind projected an image of his wife pressing her hand on his cheek.

"Lysandra?" he said weakly in utter disbelief. His wife smiled and shushed him, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Sleep warrior." she said. And he did as he was told.


	2. Chapter 2

When he woke again, he felt a thousand times better. His sight was clear, and from his peripheral it was obvious he was no longer in the ruins. He lye on a makeshift bed of pillows and animals furs. The first thing he realized was that everything was painted in black. Were it not for the few candles placed methodically in the small, windowless, room he would be in absolute darkness. The next thing he realized, was that he wasn't alone. He couldn't see it, but he felt a presence there, watching him. Although he doubted this presence meant any harm, it was nonetheless unsettling. He tried to sit up, but was instantly greeted with vertigo, beside him was a pail that he hastily grabbed and wretched into.

"The venom lingers in your blood," the voice is soft but eerie, like the whisper of a shade.

"But you sweated out most of it. I suggest you rest for a week or two, the venom has stunted the healing for the wound."

"How long have I been here?" he queried, after spitting up the last of whatever was left in his stomach.

"You've been unconscious for three days," the figure finally stepped forward. Revealing to be a woman, clad in a black peplos. Encircling her golden eyes and painting her full lips was black soot, a feature he knew to be common amongst followers of the God of the Underworld. Coily, black hair fell loosely along her oblong face and onto bare umber shoulders. If he weren't so delirious he would've admired her beauty, however he was trying desperately not to heave up his organs.

"The Gods have truly blessed you warrior. If I hadn't found you, you would be dead." he almost wanted to laugh at that. The Gods never intervened whenever he was too close to death. No... there was one who listened to his pleas for life and victory. It was the same God who had purposefully caused the very genesis of his misery. He wished he hadn't been so stupid.

"Do you have water?" the woman walked soundlessly across the room to a table he couldn't quite see as the furniture was also black and blended in with the darkness. She brought him a small vase filled to the brim. She gave him the vase and warned him not to drink in haste. But he was so thirsty, he ignored her and just as he finished he felt it all coming back up his throat. He vomited into the pail again.

"You're impatient. Aren't Spartans supposed to be the epitome of self discipline?" He stared at her as she took the vase from his hands.

"You know who I am?"

"Everyone knows about the Ghost of Sparta," he internally cringed. That was an alias he would never get used to hearing. Typically people ran away from him once knowing who he was. Yet this woman didn't seemed remotely disturbed that she saved a man who'd slain thousands of people, many of them innocent.

"Although I must admit. I don't know you're real name."

"...Kratos."

"Raw, unstoppable power. That is a fitting name for a man of your...physique." her eyes appraised his body and despite his fatigue and illness there was no helping the subtle heat spreading in his pelvis. She stood and went back to the table, fixing him more water.

"Slowly." she said, when she handed it back to him. He took his time, gulping down the water at a sluggish rate.

"You have not told me who you are." he said. The woman took the pail, gazing into it and grimacing.

" I am a simple priestess." she said. With the pail, she left the room through a door covered by black curtains. He still felt awfully weak and lethargic, so he went back to asleep.

For the next few days he didn't see the priestess. She came when he slept, proven by the food left by his bedside and his wound routinely cleansed and rebandaged. He could get up and walk around, though the task was laborious. Somehow the Priestess had brought him into a small and old abandoned temple likely meant for a minor god. Mostly he slept, and was glad the nightmares spared him. He did have one peculiar dream. He was in an unfamiliar land, standing a few yards from a cliff overlooking a grey ocean. The grass was long and scratched against his thighs. A woman stood inches from the edge, her back to him. She wore a long, translucent, silk dress with an olive brown coloration. The silk clung to her as the wind blew, accentuating her wide hips. No words were exchanged, in fact the dream was entirely silent. When he woke up, the priestess stared down at him, her lips curved into a smile.

"You're dream was pleasant." she said. He kept his mouth shut. "I apologize for my absence. I had a couple of things to attend to. The poison has been flushed out for good. Your wound should heal normally now," Smooth, cool, fingers probed the scar tissue on his abdomen. "Only demigods heal this quickly, does it hurt?"

"No." he was used to physical pain.

"Well...are you a demigod?" her fingers trailed away from the injury, tracing the long red tattoo that partially covered his left pectoral. He watched her closely, wondering if she were simply curious of the tattoo. As for her inquiry, he neither knew nor cared whether he was or wasn't.

"Why did you help me?"

"As a priestess of Hades I am bound to serve humanity. But I suppose you want a stronger reason than that," the Priestess's fingers glided past the tattoo on his chest to touch the one snaking down his bicep.

"I'm in need of your strength and I think the Gods have sent you to assist me. You were a thread from Hades door, surely finding you was no mistake," Kratos certainly agreed to that.

"My sister and I both serve at a temple of Hades near Athens. We're both the healers of the temple. Every year my sister and her husband journey off to replenish our inventory. It should have only taken them a month- and I had waited three months. I've been searching for my sister for almost half a year now. A week ago I finally discovered that she'd been captured by Myrmeke mercenaries led by a warrior I cannot defeat on my own. Perhaps you have heard of the notorious Achilles." Kratos did not typically care for knowing people.

"How do you know your sister and her husband are still alive?"

"I'm certain her husband was killed. I have an affinity for the dead-one of many gifts from Lord Hades. I felt his spirit leaving this world. And my sister… we're twins you see. My connection to her is stronger than anything on this earth. She's in danger, but she's alive." The only question lingering in his mind was what reward he would receive for helping. Could this be the final task in his quest for atonement? Would the Gods grant him his desire and end his nightmares? Either way, she had saved his life. He owed her a debt.

"Tell me more about this Achilles."

By the next day most of Kratos's strength returned. He deemed it best to leave early in the morning, before monsters and humans stirred awake. As the sun peeked over the horizon, the light provided a clearer appearance of Hades' follower. Her gold eyes lit up, seemingly twinkling in the sunlight. He could see that her black peplos was thin and could faintly see nude skin underneath. Her figure became more prominent. He immediately thought of his dream of the woman standing at the edge of a cliff. The Priestess noticed his ogling, and a playful smirk graced her lips.

"Come Spartan. Troy is quite the distance from here."

"Troy?" the city had been ravaged years before his birth by the preceding king of Sparta, Menelaus. It was no different than Rhodes; a magnificent city reduced to nothing.

"Achilles seems to have set roots there. Considering his involvement, it isn't surprising." after the woman had given everything she knew about the Myrmeke warrior, Kratos found himself conflicted and somewhat angered. During his youth, he was explicitly trained in Spartan conquests, but for his teachers to leave out such a warrior in their history was unnerving. Achilles clearly was the real reason why Sparta could breech Troy's walls, yet he was taught the Great Menelaus had been the true hero who'd taken the city. What other fallacies were imbedded in his education? Or perhaps the Priestess's words were mere legend.

"If this Achilles is famous, why does he spend his days rotting in rubbish?"

The priestess thought to herself for a moment. "I've heard that he lost his mind after his companion, Patroclus, was killed." Kratos crossed his arms; a warrior was met with death and violence everyday. Kratos had been acquainted enough with the smell of blood and gore. He had known some men to go mad from battles, unable to stomach the brutality. But he knew Achilles was not such. Kratos knew better than anyone how it felt to lose what he considered more precious than anything.

"This Patroclus was his lover. No?"

The Priestess shrugged, "Who knows? Frankly, I don't care. I just want my sister."


	3. Chapter 3

A few miles from the old temple on the outskirts of Rhodes was the sea coast, swarming with seagulls that had made a home of the unmanned ports. Kratos could not see a single boat in sight. He looked to the Priestess, expecting a solution. She returned his gaze, her lips turned upwards.

"We're not traveling by sea."

"How do you expect us to reach Troy otherwise." he said

"As I said before, my lord Hades had given me many gifts." from the hem of her peplos a black mist gradually pooled, expanding outwards. Kratos felt his instincts go haywire and immediately backed away from the oddity.

"Do not fear Spartan. It is merely energy, gathered from the restless dead residing in Rhodes and also within the water. I will have enough power to jump us to Lesbos. From there we can take a ship to Troy."

"What do you mean 'jump'?" the black mist became more opaque as it grew, obscuring the Priestess's body from the waist down.

"Think of it as a portal," the Priestess said with an amused pitch in her voice. "It's the same power Death incarnate uses to navigate between the Underworld and the Living world. But I cannot use it as freely as a God. Without souls, I cannot use it at all. Try to relax, I promise, the jump is painless." Kratos was filled with doubt, but he had no reason to distrust the Priestess. Why go through the effort of saving someone just to kill them the next turn? He forced his instincts into submission and allowed the black mist to overtake him.

He was floating, but the sensation was peculiar. He knew his feet were not on solid ground, yet he felt grounded as if on an invisible platform. He couldn't see the Priestess, only darkness. But this void was nothing like in his nightmare, when the Furies terrorized him. Strangely he felt comforted, a subtle warmth surrounded him and he was reminded of nights lying with his wife in bed as she cradled him in her arms. And his mind brought forth precious moments when he and his daughter would sit together as he listened to her play her flute. In the blink of an eye the black mist retreats. Immediately his eyes are met with a ginormous curtain wall with battlements stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. It was as white as the sand on the sea line and seemed even greater in the presence of the blazing sun. As close as the walls seemed, he knew they were quite a distance away; if they hurried they could reach it in a few hours. He tore his focus away from the wall, searching for the Priestess and finding her on her knees and breathing heavily. He rushed to her side. She glanced up at him, sweat gathered along her forehead and slicked down her temples.

"I used too much energy," she huffed, "it wasn't my intention to jump this far. But we won't need a boat anymore. Troy is right there." Kratos grasped the Priestess's forearms, encouraging her to stand. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and concentrating. When she opened them again, she seemed to have found her equilibrium.

"The portal," Kratos began, "It was not what I expected."

"And what were you expecting?"

"...Pain."

The Priestess laughed mockingly, "Most assume the Underworld is but suffering for all eternity. Although the mist originates from the Underworld it is not a tool meant for harm. Depending on the one who conjures it, the jump can be a pleasant experience. Was it pleasant for you?" he set his lips in a tight line, refusing to speak of his feelings on the matter. But the Priestess was right, it was the most pleasure he had felt in years. He let go of the Priestess when she could stand on her own without falling forward. He was incredibly close to her, and could see her dark nipples through her clothing. Under different circumstances he would have tried seducing her into sleeping with him.

The sun's heat didn't made the trekking any more bearable. His pale skin burned, blisters formed along his bare head and back but were gone within minutes, due to his fast healing ability. The Priestess paced peacefully, not at all bothered by the heat. By the time they reached the gates the sun had left its zenith position in the sky. The gates were stripped of their doors, a pile of burnt wood, broken marble statues, and other rubble was stacked between the entrance's boundaries.

"Step aside." Kratos said, grabbing the twin blades secured to his back. Instantly, their magic set to work, creating flame links to the chains on his forearms. With a single strike, the barricade was asunder, and within minutes it was reduced to ashes.

"Amazing." the Priestess said with awe. But her wonder of his powers would not last, as an arrow flies past his head and stabs the dirt beside the Priestess's foot.

"This is your only warning!" the archer stood in the battlement, directly above the main gate. "If you continue any further, you will die!"

"We're looking for Achilles!" the Priestess yelled back, her voice strong and confident. Kratos wondered if he should just kill the nuisance- it'd certainly be easier, rather than talking.

"Who are you!"

"I am a simple Priestess of Hades." Kratos internally scoffed; a priestess with an affinity for sensing souls and an ability to teleport was not a 'simple' priestess.

"What about you? Who are you!" the archer referred to him. Kratos glanced at the Priestess; she nodded, urging him to introduce himself. "How mundane." he muttered quietly to himself.

"I am Kratos." just as his name left his lips the archer grunted in pain, and soundlessly disappeared. Replacing his spot was a skeleton dressed in old Spartan armor, glaring down at them. The Priestess nodded wordlessly and the skeleton shuddered and became lifeless once more. 'And also a necromancer.' Kratos thought to himself, 'if she has such power, what use is my strength?'.

They entered the city, finding it as much a ruin as Rhodes. Besides the mounds of debris and stone the city was empty. Skeletons littered the ground, some almost as black as the soot around the Priestess's eyes. The Trojan horse, which had been Troy's ultimate doom, stood proud and untouched in the center of what may have been the marketplace, based on the deteriorating stands and numerous vases and silks left alone.

"Where are the rest of them?" the Priestess spoke, poking at a vase covered in sand and dust, "Only one man was manning the gate?"

"Or maybe the warrior is sure of his capabilities." The Priestess shrugged and continued down a lengthy pathway, leading into an alley. Each step she took was deliberate, despite neither having ever visited Troy. Occasionally she would pause, closing her eyes and inhaling. "This way." she would urge, and continue in the desired direction.

"How do you know this?" Kratos finally asked.

" I feel an exceptionally strong presence nearby. He's practically pulling me to him. But…"

"But?" the Priestess chose to keep quiet. After passing through two more alleys, they came upon a clearing drenched in red. The three walls enclosing the space were draped with crimson silks, flowing and blending into the red stained ground- Kratos had a feeling it wasn't paint. In the middle of the space was multiple pillows and vases of red wine. A naked man sat on a pillow, holding a vase high above his head as he drank. Wine spilled down his mandible, streaming down his filthy bronze skin. Once the vase was emptied he tossed it to the side. Sandy blonde hair wildly cascaded down his shoulders. Murky green eyes, like damp moss, narrowed at Kratos and the Priestess.

"Who, *hic* wher' theothers?"

"Achilles?" the Priestess was just as baffled as he.

"Yes. It is *hic* I. The one. And only." the warrior tried to stand but swayed so much that he fell back on his bottom.

"This man hardly poses a challenge. I doubt, in his state, he could hardly fight off a child." Kratos spat; he had hoped to fight against -what the Priestess considered- a powerful foe. All he could see was weakness. The Priestess glanced at him in warning, "even in his drunken stupor this man is still dangerous. Do not underestimate him." she approached Achilles, stopping a few arm lengths from him.

"Your men kidnapped my sister."

"Yo-*hic* your who?"

"My sister. Her name is Agave." Achilles crossed his arms and casted his eyes down in contemplation.

"Perhaps I could help his memory." Kratos said, as he approached the drunken warrior with clenched fists. The Priestess grabbed his arm,  
"Don't." she said. But he had run out of patience. Kratos grabbed Achilles by his hair and slammed his head into the ground. The was no reaction from the Hero of Troy- in fact, he hadn't made a single sound. Instead, Kratos' arm was grasped with an unyielding grip as the warrior stood. Achilles was a few inches shorter, but that didn't deter him. From this proximity, Kratos could smell the warrior's awful stench. He wondered when was the last time Achilles bothered to bathe. And his breath stank of wine. Blood slicked down his nostrils and his nose looked slightly crooked.

"You shouldn *hic* havedone that."

"Achilles-" the Priestess tried but it was too late. Before Kratos could blink he was being thrown across the courtyard.


End file.
